


Little Bird

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Presence of Gods, Are They In Love Or Is It Codependence? Who Knows!, Broken Bones, CW: Primrose, CW: Yusufa, Canon Divergence, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Like Every Kind Of Trauma You Can Think Of, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Messing With Tenses, Metaphors, Past Sexual Abuse, Recovery, Trauma, Yeah Just Read This One., concussion, rewrite of an older fic, stab wounds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 15:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30124794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: While Primrose goes on her revenge quest and saves the continent, Yusufa stays in Clearbrook and saves something else entirely.
Relationships: Primrose Azelhart & Yusufa, Yusufa & Zeph (Octopath Traveler)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Sand and Ruin

**Author's Note:**

> yeah

When you grow up in a place like Sunshade, you get used to death. 

It’s ingrained into everyone living there. Innocence is a luxury only granted to rich mens’ children— except for them, everyone knows what lurks in the alleyways, in the taverns, in the hands of those in power. It litters the town like spots on a leopard; tavern brawls turned lethal, mugging victims shanked in the alley and left to die, drunkards who finally reached the bottom of the bottle and found only a sleep from which they’ll never wake. People try to avoid it, of course; death is the ultimate end, the ultimate unknown, a plunge into darkness with no way back out, and such things are frightening. So they try not to talk about it, and carry knives in their belts and bring their children inside once it gets dark. They comply with those above them and look away when they see something going on, because that’s how you keep your nose clean in Sunshade. 

The dancers know better than anyone. Sunshade has its merchants, its craftsmen, its herders— but the dancers are what makes the money, and anyone in charge of any amount of business will keep the closest eye on what brings in the most. People don’t like to talk about it, but that’s the truth. Without the dancers, Sunshade would wither and die. 

The dancers know. Master Helgenish keeps them all on short leashes held tight in his meaty fist. To Sunshade, he is an unshakeable giant; authoritarian and capricious, looming like the cliff that gives the town its name. In the grander scheme of things, he’s just another selfish landlord, and not even a very good one, but if you’ve lived in Sunshade and its particular culture all your life, the idea of an outside world seems an impossible fantasy. All that remains is a simple mantra: _Follow the rules. Stay in your lane. Don’t ask questions. Survive._

But people die sometimes. There’s blood in the gutters, the grout lines, the cracks in the brick. The people look away and hold their tongues while Helgenish’s lackeys carry the bodies to the pyre and set them ablaze. Some may placate themselves by thinking of it as their souls returning to Aelfric’s Holy Flame. Others know it’s because digging graves in the desert is a waste of time. 

Yusufa’s not afraid of death. She’s grown up around it; watched it happen, sometimes. She’s seen the pyres and watched the ashes swirl in the wind. She’s seen the bodies set alight, left to run another errand, and returned to see the body still there, hours later, as a charred husk slowly crumbling. Other towns chisel names of the deceased into stone, or write them down in record books. Sunshade just forgets them, as if they were never there at all. If they’re lucky, their families and friends will mourn them and miss them, and go back to living their lives. 

Some aren’t so lucky. Some are just more sand in the desert. 

But life goes on, as life always does. A Sunshade baker still kneads his dough. A Sunshade merchant still sells his wares. Sunshade children still chase balls and hoops through the streets. It’s not to say they pay no mind to the looming threats of death and violence if they step out of line, or that they don’t care. It’s that after a while it gets very tiring to be consciously vigilant, and instead will learn to be unconsciously vigilant. The mind adapts, as it always must. 

Every dancer has a story. Sometimes they’ll even tell them. Many times Yusufa’s been bringing midday meals to the dormitory and waiting for them to finish so she can bring back the dishes, and been enraptured listening to stories of families and friendships and selves, found or lost or found again. Dreams of riches, or treasures. Dreams of a love against all odds, catching the eye of a gentleman who will pull her away from the life of a dancer. Particularly when she was still very young, the dancers would humor her questions, taking pity on the little girl who carried their meals and scrubbed at tight spaces until her hands were raw, who carried messages through back alleys she knew like the back of her hand, who tended the fires that kept their baths warm. She’d regret it later, punished for wasting time, but even as she curled up on her bedroll with tears on her face and welts on her back, she would think of the stories of a world outside Sunshade, a life outside masters and taverns and back alleys. For a while she’d been young enough to dream herself, and dream of later telling her story to someone who listened, intently, eyes wide and breath stilled. No treasure or fairytale love could come close to that dream— just for someone to listen. 

Prim had a story, and Yusufa knew it the moment they met, even if Prim wouldn’t share it until years later. Yusufa was still scrubbing baseboards and running errands in those days. Even then, Prim carried herself with dignity and pride, her back straight, her chin high. The scuffed shoes and dirty traveling cloak did nothing to hide her status. She wore a green ribbon in her hair, tied into a crooked bow. Yusufa had been picking up discarded plates and mugs and ferrying them by the basket-load into the scullery to add to the ever-growing pile, and Primrose, walking into the tavern like she was going to speak and expected the world to listen, asked the barkeep where to find Helgenish. 

The barkeep was a broad man people called Alby, which might not have been his real name, but he never bothered correcting anyone, so Alby he remained. Barkeeps in Helgenish’s taverns never lasted long, but Alby had been there longer than most, and had thought he’d seen it all by then. So to Primrose he’d raised an eyebrow, but planted his hands on the bar and asked her why she wanted to know. 

“I need to see a man named with a tattoo of a crow,” Primrose had said. Her voice was clear and bold, despite its youth. “I’d heard Helgenish has dealings with him.”

Alby’s face darkened. “Best forget that name, lass,” he said. “And best leave this place, and go home. This is no place for girls like you.”

“I won’t,” Prim said firmly. Alby was twice her size, and the mercenaries guarding the tavern were even larger. But she didn’t yield, not even an inch. 

“You’ll be waiting a while, then,” Alby said. “The man you’re looking for doesn’t come around here often.” 

“I can wait.”

Alby sighed. “See the Master, then. Oy,” he snapped his fingers, and Yusufa jolted, setting down her basket of dishes by the scullery door and scurrying to his side. Alby nodded to her, then looked back to Primrose. “She’ll take you there.” 

Prim seemed satisfied. “Thank you, sir,” he said. 

“Hold your thanks,” Alby grunted. “If you get your wish, and you stay here, in time you’ll come to curse my name as the man who kept you here.” 

He turned around, firmly ending the conversation. Yusufa led her outside the tavern, past the guards, towards the square. 

“What’s your name?” Primrose asked, and it’d taken Yusufa a moment to process, because not many people ever bothered to learn her name. 

But she’d managed, and “Yusufa,” she said.

And she’d replied, “My name’s Primrose. Primrose Azelhart.”

“Two names?” Yusufa had asked. “You’re someone important?”

Prim shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. You work here?”

“For Master Helgenish,” Yusufa said.

“Doing what?”  
  
“Anything his head of staff says needs doing.” 

“Like?”

“Stoking fires, running messages, scrubbing fire pits, carrying meals, the like.”

“Is he a good master?”

Yusufa didn’t know how to answer that. “I’ve never had any other.”

“Do your parents work for him, too, then?”

“I don’t have any,” Yusufa said. 

“Oh.” Primrose quieted. “I suppose I don’t, either.” She said it sorrowfully, as if it were a heavy weight on her chest. Yusufa didn’t understand it at the time. Why should she be so sad? Every kid Yusufa knew got along just fine without them.

“You look real pretty,” Yusufa said. “Maybe Master Helgenish will let you be a dancer.”

“I can dance,” Prim had said, perking up. 

“The dancing girls are all so lovely,” Yusufa sighed. “Everyone loves them. People come to Sunshade from all over Orsterra to see them. You should show Master Helgenish, if you can dance,” she added. “Maybe you’ll find the man you’re looking for sooner.”

“I hope I do,” Primrose mumbled. She was grasping something hidden under her cloak. Prim said nothing else, and Yusufa still wishes she’d never opened her mouth in the first place.

Even in Sunshade, life goes on. The sun rises and sets, changing where the cliff’s shadow falls throughout the day. Prim learned to dance the way dancers of Sunshade do it. She was fifteen for her debut show, dressed in pink silks and glittering gold. Mercenaries were glowering at the audience, and everyone knew they’d be thrown out of the tavern— or worse— if they tried to get too close without paying for it first. Yusufa watched it from the back of the tavern, carrying a basket of mugs and plates. The spotlights made Prim shine like a beacon. Her smile was dazzling, as brilliant as the gems around her neck, but Yusufa saw only her eyes, and the sadness hidden behind.

Yusufa’s seen dancers break after their debut, no matter how old they are when it happens, be it fifteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-four, or anywhere in between. She saw Prim bend for a bit— curled in on herself, clutching her father’s dagger like a lifeline, face raw from scrubbing off the makeup and feet aching from the dance— but Prim never broke. She rubbed the tears from her eyes, squared her shoulders, and lifted her head again. 

Helgenish let Yusufa start her dancing lessons about the same time. She’d gotten too old to scrub dishes and run messages like the rest of the kids, he says. It’s about time she start to pull her weight for real. He was quick to remind her that most girls that get to her age end up working the back streets or doing hard labor, and it’s only because he’s generously taking a chance on her that she’s being allowed to dance. She was given clothing so nice that it feels as if her skin should repel it and pretty jewelry that glimmers in the light; allowed to bathe in the bathhouse with the other dancers and sleep in the dormitory on a real bedroll, and to eat the fruit and bread brought in by another child doing a job Yusufa once did. And she got respite in the dancer’s dormitory, pressed up in the corner by the fabric racks, and Prim let her roll out her bedroll next to her. 

They were the two youngest dancers in the dormitory. The other dancers didn’t like Yusufa because she used to be one of the ones that served them, and they didn’t like Primrose because she was Helgenish’s favorite, so the two of them stuck together. When they had free time, used to clean up and rest between shows, they would sit together and speak in mumbles so the others don’t overhear. Yusufa used to sleep crammed into whatever nook or cranny she could find, usually with several other kids. Compared to that, it was the lap of luxury.

Prim always kept her things in a battered leather bag with brass buckles and a crest embroidered onto the front pocket. She never talked about it, in those days, and Yusufa never asks, though Yusufa often wondered what it said. Prim didn’t ever really talk much, not when Yusufa first knew her. But Yusufa always liked her, even if she never said anything about it. Prim never once said anything nasty or cruel to her, never pushed her away or shouted or called her stupid, clumsy, worthless. Never sneered at her like she was better. Never laughed at her when she fell. And when Yusufa messed up, Prim never once told on her— not to Madame Anya the dance teacher, not to Helgenish’s head of staff, and certainly not to Helgenish himself. Yusufa told her once that the other dancers would like her better if she ignored Yusufa like the rest of them. Prim had scoffed and said she didn’t need them to like her. Just for that, Yusufa thought Primrose was the kindest and bravest person she’d ever met. 

Once during their years in Sunshade together, Yusufa asked her about the words carved into her dagger. The days and years all blend together in a place like Sunshade, where the passing of the seasons was only known by when the sun rose and set, but it was much later, when the sunburn that once scorched Prim’s shoulders and cheeks turned to a permanent tan. But even with years in Sunshade, waiting and waiting, she still kept her head high and her shoulders square, no matter how many beatings they took. 

Prim had looked at it. It was lovely, but didn’t look much like any other dagger Yusufa had ever seen. It glimmered all golden and silver, with a rose delicately sculpted on the crossguard and a red gemstone in the pommel. Prim keeps it strapped to her thigh, like a lot of the other dancers. Yusufa has never had to use hers, but she’d heard of dancers who did. Master Helgenish didn’t like losing clients, but losing one client was far preferable, to him, than losing a dancer— one client is only one wallet full of money. One dancer can bring in ten times that. 

“My father gave it to me,” she’d said. “Faith shall be your shield. It’s the family creed. He told me that a long time ago.”

“I didn’t know families had creeds,” Yusufa said. 

“Most don’t.” Prim shrugged and put it back in her bag, belting it shut. 

“What happened to him?” Yusufa asked. “Your father.”

Prim was silent. For a horrifying minute, Yusufa was afraid she’d transgressed Prim’s boundaries and lost her only friend. But she spoke again, calm and measured, like always. 

“He was killed,” she said. “But it doesn’t concern you.”

That was the end of it. Yusufa never asked again, and Prim never said. But Prim still slept on the bedroll next to her, and they still shared the blankets when the desert nights got cold, and Prim was never mean to her. 

The first time Prim falters, they’re twenty-three.

It’s before the night’s show. Prim is the star, as usual, and Helgenish has her make her way around the tavern, getting patrons excited for the showstopper at the end of the night and eager to open their wallets. Because even if they couldn’t have her, well, Sunshade has so many lovely women, and it’d be a shame for them to miss out just because she was booked for the night. 

It goes like this. The door opens. A group of men come in— big, burly men, like Helgenish’s mercenaries and enforcers that keep Sunshade in line. The middle one isn’t so big and burly, but he acts like he is. Helgenish scurries to his side, eager to offer the stranger whatever— whomever— he likes, free of charge, of course. At first, Yusufa doesn’t think anything of it, and keeps herself busy doing what she’s supposed to be doing, being charming and flirty, whatever she needs to be to keep the patrons happy. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the stranger scowling at Helgenish. There’s a dark tattoo on his arm that Yusufa can’t quite figure out with just a glance. He leaves with his entourage, and Helgenish wipes the sweat from his bald head with a handkerchief. 

Prim’s stopped in her tracks. Yusufa doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t need to. Prim’s risked beatings and worse before, covering for Yusufa. Maybe it’s time for Yusufa to return the favor.

She nudges Prim’s shoulder. “Go,” she whispers. “I’ll keep him busy.” 

She doesn’t know the expression on Prim’s face, the look that Prim gives her before she bolts towards the back exit— didn’t, rather. Later, she would learn it was gratitude. 

Everyone knows what happens when Helgenish is displeased with one of his dancers— when she fails to perform to his standards, or respond to his summons. It depends on his mood at the time, and on the dancer. It may as well be picking a name from a hat. 

For all her life, Helgenish has been an inescapable giant who could snuff out her life in an instant— her greatest fear that she sees in the depths of her nightmares and feels the presence of every waking moment. She used to beg and plead when he beat her. But Prim never did.

Some part of Yusufa had always known she was going to die this way— beaten half to death and tossed in a gutter, left in agony while her blood pooled and her lungs collapsed. Every dancer has heard the stories, or seen it happen. Girls who die with half their heads bashed in, or with broken backs and crushed lungs, or shaking and spitting up blood. In life, dancers are smiling and pretty, glittering like stars in the sky. Death is never so glamorous. Yusufa had figured this was how she’d go, and it would one day be her dented skull, her blood on the cobblestones, her body someone would come across days later. They’d toss her on the pyre and turn her ashes to bones, and no one would mourn her loss or remember her name. 

Perhaps Primrose would, though. It’s a terribly sad thing to die alone and unmourned; Yusufa’s always believed everyone should be missed when they die, soft-hearted though it may be in a place like Sunshade. So if Primrose will remember her, and be there when she burns, then Yusufa isn’t afraid. 

For as long as people have been capable of thought, they’ve wondered about a life after death. Some believe in it. Some don’t. The Church of the Sacred Flame says the souls of the dead are reborn as the miracle of fire, returning their life into the universe which birthed it. The Soulfarmer will take those who were hale and good of spirit in life, and then plant them in the world once more, and their life will begin again. And as such, they say that the good and just have no need to fear death, for them, it will be their rebirth. The Church doesn’t have much of a hold in Sunshade, but some still believe it’s true. Yusufa’s never thought about it, but thinks it would be wonderful if it were true. 

There’s blood in her eyes. It all hurts so much. Prim calls her name— faint, like she’s far away, but even so Yusufa hears the fear in her voice. The anger. The desperation. 

_Were we friends, Prim?_

_Yes, Yusufa. You were my friend._

Dying isn’t so painful now that she knows. 

.

.

.

There are stars above her. But they look like flowers, as if someone’s pinned little white flowers to the sky. The darkness between them ins’t empty. Patterns morph and change across it in colors she can’t describe. 

There’s a bird, like a crow, but colored like a shining black pearl. It looks at her. It doesn’t make sense that it’s perched across from her when she could’ve sworn she was lying down, but maybe it doesn’t matter. Its eyes are human, and a warm, deep brown. 

It speaks in words Yusufa feels more than hears: 

_This is the beginning._

Her eyes open. It’s nighttime. There’s a stone ceiling above her. She’s cold, and there’s sand in her mouth. Dried blood glues her tattered clothes to her skin. It’s hard to move. The ceiling spins. 

“Good morning,” Prim says. 

“Prim,” Yusufa croaks. “Why… where…” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Prim says. There’s sand in her hair, blood on her hands, dried tear tracks on her face. She has a black eye, a bloody nose, and a bruise on her cheek, plus whatever Yusufa can’t see. “The Lady of Grace must be fond of you.” 

“Lady…?” 

Prim nods to the cavern. “You passed out. I tore up Helgenish’s cape for bandages and splints, but when I thought it wouldn’t do any good, I brought you here, to the shrine.” She swallows, hard. “I felt your heart stop.” 

“I… I saw a bird,” Yusufa manages. 

“I’ve heard it said that Sealctige will show herself in the form of a bird sometimes,” Prim says. “Maybe that’s what it was. How do you feel?”

Yusufa considers this. “Bad,” she says. “Dizzy. Thirsty. Cold.”

“I’d offer you water, but.” Prim holds up a canteen. “You threw it back up last time I tried.” 

“Sorry,” Yusufa mumbles.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” Prim says. “You need to try. Here.” She shifts Yusufa’s head onto her leg and tilts it up. Yusufa’s stomach lurches, but she valiantly keeps it from turning itself inside out. Prim tilts the canteen until water trickles out. It feels wonderful against Yusufa’s throat, though it’s a little sandy. She can deal with that. She drinks as much as she can get, until she sputters and Prim pulls the canteen away. 

“It’s another few days to the Riverlands,” she says. “Once we’re there, water won’t be as much of a problem. Saintsbridge is another couple of days after that, if we avoid the main roads. We’ll be able to find a doctor for you there.”

Yusufa frowns. “Doc…” 

“You’re hurt,” Prim says, like it’s obvious. “You’ve got broken bones, scrapes, bruises, and probably a cracked skull, not to mention the fact that they stabbed you.”

Yusufa shakes her head, and regrets doing it, because her vision spins, and she’d lose her balance if she weren’t lying down. “Doctors… they don’t…” she coughs without meaning to, and regrets that even more. Tears spring to her eyes, and she bites down hard on her cheek. 

“Doctors outside Sunshade are different,” Prim promises. “Helgenish isn’t the boss of them. They won’t turn us away.” 

Yusufa’s eyes widen. “Mas—“ 

“Dead,” Prim cuts her off. “He’s dead, and so are the lackeys he brought to do his dirty work. He won’t hurt anyone ever again.” While she says it, she unhooks her bracelets, her necklaces, takes the earrings from her ears. Prim’s had always been the nicest— real gold, real gems. She stands up and flings them out into the sand. Yusufa glances at her own— pretty, but worthless; polished brass and cheap crystals. She figures that’s how she is next to Prim. 

Master Helgenish, dead. It doesn’t feel real. But then, she supposes, if anyone would be the one to kill him, it’d be Prim. Stubborn, brave Prim. 

In the future, some treasure hunter will find Prim’s jewels and think he’s struck it rich. If he finds Yusufa’s, he’ll toss them aside, knowing they’re pretty, but false. _Let him_ , Yusufa decides. She follows Prim’s lead, and her jewelry lands in the dunes, swallowed by the sand. 

Prim pushes Yusufa’s hair from her face. It moves in matted chunks. She can hear it now that there’s no more clinking of metal on metal. Yusufa hadn’t realized how much it reminded her of shackles until they’re gone, and her wrists are light again. “We’re never going back there,” she murmurs. “No more masters. No more taverns. No more horny old men.”

“You sound so soft,” Yusufa notices. “So kind. You’ve never talked that way before.” 

Prim avoids the question. “You just rest while you can,” she says. “Sealctige brought your life back. Don’t throw her gift away.” 

_She didn’t,_ Yusufa wants to say, but doesn’t. _It was you, Prim. It was you._


	2. Water, Running Red

Travel in the desert is tough. You need to bring water with you, and water’s heavy and bulky. Cart wheels sink into the sand. Landmarks are few and far between. The temperature soars in the daytime and plummets at night. And if the land itself doesn’t kill you, there’s about five billion species of monster, animal, bug, and even plant that’ll do the job. Frankly, the wildlife is the least of their worries. 

They rest by day and travel by night. Yusufa does, anyway— she doesn’t know if Prim rests at all. Yusufa’s in and out of consciousness, and mostly lingers in the murky state between the two. For a bit, she tries to lean on Prim and hobble on her splinted leg, but it’s so slow, they give up. They take turns taking little sips from the canteen Primrose picked up off the corpse of one of Helgenish’s henchmen, and poke around half-buried skeletons and carcasses in case something useful turns up. They don’t find much— tattered banners and canvases, broken wood, bones picked clean by vultures. When the bloodstains on the bandages around Yusufa’s wound stain red and brown, Prim rips up the cloth for new ones. Helgenish’s cape had been black silk trimmed with gold, and it’d been expensive before Prim ripped it up for bandages. Prim tosses it aside in disgust and lets the wind take it away. 

Neither of them are strangers to shivering through desert nights, ignoring hunger pangs and aching limbs, standing up and moving despite every muscle begging for rest. Yusufa’s head hurts, and her chest, her back, her stomach, her leg. The bruises on her wrists and arms, fading from purple to blue. She knows Prim’s in pain, too— her own bruises, her own aches and pains. She tries to rub the soreness out of her knees and feet and back, but Yusufa knows they won’t go away. Not as long as she still has to carry her. 

It’s the third day when Yusufa starts feeling worse. She keeps shivering, even in the daytime, with sweat rolling down her face. Everything hurts. Her blood keeps oozing out through the fabric shreds, thick and sticky like honey or sap. She wants to cough, but it hurts too much for her to try anything more than little shallow ones that don’t clear the full feeling in her lungs. 

Prim grimaces when she changes the makeshift bandages, swapping them out for strips torn from a flag she found half-buried in the dunes. “Smells awful,” she mutters. “I think it could be infected.” 

“Is that bad?” Yusufa manages. 

“No worse than anything else we’re dealing with,” Prim says dryly. “We’re already moving as fast as we can.” 

“It’d be faster if you were by yourself,” Yusufa murmurs. 

“Hey,” Prim scolds her— not harshly, not like anyone else. “Don’t say that. I’m not gonna leave you to die.” 

“I’ve seen how your knees and your feet hurt,” Yusufa says. “It’s because you’re carrying me. Walking for miles with no breaks.” 

Prim’s hand goes to the side of her foot, like she’s trying to hide the swelling from view. “Worry about yourself first,” she says. “You’re the one with the broken bones. I’m not going to just leave you in the desert. Not after getting you mixed up in all this.”

“I got myself mixed up in it,” Yusufa replies. 

“Because you were covering for me,” Prim says. 

Yusufa shrugs, which hurts. “You’ve covered for me before. I felt I should return the favor.” 

Prim sighs and shakes her head. She tucks the faded banner further around Yusufa’s thin shoulders. It’s rough against her skin, but it’s a layer of protection against the harsh desert air. Prim’s own are bare, and already sunburned all over again. Her hair’s tangled and dirty, with sand in the thick brown waves she wears it in.

“Don’t keep score,” she says. “We’re friends. We look out for each other.” 

“What have I ever done for you?” Yusufa scoffs. 

Prim’s quiet. She pushes Yusufa’s hair from her face. Yusufa wonders why she’s started doing that. “Get some rest,” she says. “The sooner we get to Saintsbridge, the sooner you’ll feel better.” 

The transition between the Riverlands and the Sunlands is a subtle one. Scrubby trees and grasses start to poke up through the sand, bushes and shrubs that give way to undergrowth and then tall pine and aspen trees, growing in patches along riverbanks. They stay off the beaten path. Prim carries her through muddy creeks and lowlands, using the trees to shelter them from the sun. They stop to drink at the first stream they find where the water flows clear, and Prim refills the canteen in case they don’t find another. 

The air’s still chilly— Prim says it’s early spring, still too near the winter for the air to be warm. Seasons are a foreign concept to Yusufa. The Sunlands are arid and dry all year— it’s what allows the orchards to grow hot-weather fruit. 

The sky is gray and low, and Prim glances up at it. There’s a low rumble in the distance. 

“Looks like rain,” she mumbles. “We should find shelter soon.” 

Rain. Prim had mentioned rain before. And of course Yusufa’s seen it herself, but it’s rare— the desert floods if too much rain falls, which doesn’t happen often. You can live your whole life in the Sunlands and never see more than an inch at a time. 

The sky rumbles, or maybe that’s just Yusufa’s aching head. They emerge from the tree cover and come to a lowland riverbank. The current is slow and leisurely, but the water towards the middle is dark and reflective, showing roiling grey clouds— it looks deep, maybe even bottomless. It’s worn away the landscape, carving itself banks in gravel and sand. Wild grasses and shrubs cover where the bank doesn’t reach. From her low vantage point, Yusufa can see a little log pier built out from the bank, and a bridge further away connecting both sides of the river. She hears the rushing of a waterfall in the distance— or, again, maybe that’s her headache. There’s a signpost sticking up from a point on the other side of the river, but it’s too far away for her to see what it says. 

Prim hurries under it just before the rain starts to pour. She’s shorter than Yusufa, but the bank isn’t so high she could stand under it. She scoots them back as far as they can, and pushes aside some of the larger rocks so she can help Yusufa lie down. She does it gently, like she’s something fragile, something precious. 

Log beams and fishing nets obscure them from the outside world, like a little cave. The rain drums on the pier over their heads, falling into the river one drop at a time, creating little ripples in the water’s surface. The wind makes the rushes move and whisper. It sounds like music, the tapping and the whistling and the rattling. Yusufa’s never heard anything like it.

Prim mutters an expletive under her breath, taking off her sandals and shaking off the water and dirt. Stray leaves and twigs have stuck to her skin while she was wading through the marsh, and she flicks them away. 

She sighs, letting herself breathe. “How are you feeling?”

Yusufa coughs into the back of her hand, and it comes away sticky. A sharp pain in her ribs reminds her why she shouldn’t do that. She could say a lot of things to answer Prim’s question. She settles on “Bad.” 

Prim tucks the faded banner further around Yusufa’s shoulders, trying to make it warmer, hold her tighter. But it’s still just old cotton, damp with sweat and humidity, and the air is cold. It feels like the wind goes right through it. Prim scoots closer, putting her arm around Yusufa’s back and letting Yusufa rest her head on her leg. There’s grime and dried blood on the red silk. Her makeup’s long since been ruined and scrubbed away. There are twigs and leaves in her hair. Her black eye’s turned sickly shades of yellow and green around the edges. Yusufa’s always seen Prim’s eyes look determined and hard, holding up a shield to keep the world at bay as she walked unflinchingly towards her goals. Now she looks sad, even regretful. 

“We’re not too far from a village, it looks like,” she says. “This wasn’t my plan, but if you have an infection, it could go bad fast. You need food, rest, real medicine.” 

“And you’ll rest, too?” Yusufa asks. 

“You’re in no position to be worried about me,” Prim replies. 

Yusufa nudges her. “Just promise me,” she says. 

“Fine,” Prim caves. “I promise, I’ll rest, too.” 

“Good,” Yusufa mumbles. She yawns. Prim is so warm. Her warmth cuts right through Yusufa’s chills, almost enough to ease her shivering. And it’s cold, but anywhere is better than Sunshade. Yusufa doesn’t hate Sunshade as a whole. She’d lived in it all her life, and knows every inch of it. She’d seen the good as well as the bad— the rooftop gardens, the bustling market square, the groves of plum trees and grapevines. Its people were just people, living their lives. She’ll never go back, that’s true. But she doesn’t hate the town itself. 

She dozes on Prim’s lap while the rain goes on. It’s oddly meditative, the rain over their heads. The river flowing, the lapping of the current against the posts of the pier. There’s plants everywhere, in the Riverlands. More green than Yusufa ever thought the world could hold. Prim says that it’s not even as green as it could be— it’s still early enough in the springtime that a lot of the plants haven’t started to flower yet, after winter. She says that back where she’s from, in the Flatlands, the summers were lush and warm, with fields that rippled like the ocean. Yusufa’s never seen the ocean, either, but Prim spoke of it fondly, so she assumes it must be beautiful. 

The rain goes on and on. She knows Prim stays awake through it all— Prim was always like that. Yusufa’s only seen her sleep when she was injured or sick back in Sunshade. Other times she was always awake, always keeping watch while Yusufa rested. Nothing ever got into the dormitory, but even so. Every time Yusufa opens her eyes, it’s gotten darker. Once the rain’s stopped, it’s gotten dark enough she can hardly see at all. 

Prim’s head jerks up. Her muscles tense. Her hand goes to her dagger in an instant. In a second, Yusufa sees what she means, even if her own movements are labored and painful. There’s a flickering yellow light nearby, bobbing like someone’s carrying it. In the darkness, Yusufa can’t see it well, and she can’t hear it, but Prim can. 

It comes closer. The light hurts her eyes. She shields her face with her hand and shrinks towards Primrose. Prim brandishes her dagger. Yusufa can feel her heart beating through her chest. 

“Hey,” someone calls. “Hey, y’all alright down there?” 

“Stay back,” Prim snarls. “Don’t take another step.” 

“Whoa, hey,” they say. It sounds like a man’s voice, but a young man. That doesn’t reassure Yusufa— young men can be just as dangerous as old men. He sets his lantern down between them, letting the light illuminate him. He’s crouching. Even lit poorly, from below, Yusufa can tell he’s tall and broad, with big hands and slouching shoulders. His hair sticks up every which way, and his chin is scruffy and unkempt. There’s a piece of straw in his mouth. 

Prim glares at him. “I said stay back!”

“I won’t come any closer, promise,” the boy says, holding up his hands. “Y’all don’t look too good, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.” 

He’s right, but he doesn’t have to say it. Primrose says nothing. 

“Name’s Alfyn,” he says. “I’m actually an apothecary. My friend and I, we run the clinic in the town just a little ways from here. I can see from the splint on your friend’s leg, y’all might need some help. Under a pier ain’t no place to do that.” 

“Don’t you touch her,” Prim growls. Yusufa has never heard her sound so angry, so protective. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Well, you don’t, I s’pose,” Alfyn admits. “You’ve just gotta believe me. I’ll bring y’all to the clinic. Mind tellin’ me your names?”

“Not your concern.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs. “But I can tell already that fracture’s not set proper. Splint’s better than nothing, but it’ll bend back outta shape in a jiffy and heal crooked if we don’t look at it. Plus, y’all look hungrier than catfish in a bucket, and it gets mighty cold after it rains around here. We’ve got warm beds and hot food back at the clinic.” 

That sounds tempting, but Prim is stubborn. She clenches her jaw, not putting her knife down. 

“Prim,” Yusufa whispers. They both know he’s right. 

Prim sighs. “Fine,” she caves, putting her dagger away and shifting Yusufa into her arms. “Take us to the clinic. But if you’re lying, I’ll slit your throat and feed you to the wolves.” 

Alfyn chuckles, seeming way too cheery for someone being threatened. “I’m just glad y’all are accepting the help,” he says. He offers his hand to help Prim out from under the pier. She stares him down, not taking it, as she and Yusufa emerge. Alfyn puts his hand back. 

“Right,” he says. “Glad we get each other.” 

He leads them across the bridge to a little village on the riverbank, built out of sod bricks and thatch roofs. The clinic is one of the larger buildings, in the center like the beating heart of the town. There’s a fenced-off garden out to the side. The door is painted green, with a white symbol of a mortar and pestle below the little round window. A covered lantern hangs underneath the wooden beams supporting the roof, and warm light comes from inside. Alfyn knocks twice and then opens the door. 

The clinic space is warm and cozy, lit by an overhead lantern and a hearth in the center of the back wall. A few low cots take up most of the space, separated by curtains that can be drawn or tied back. There’s a sofa and a few chairs on the other side of the entrance space. Bundles of dried herbs and flowers hang from the ceiling. There’s apothecary supplies scattered across desks and worktables in the back of the room, and shelves holding labeled storage jars of various reagents. There’s a higher table in the middle of the room. It’s blessedly warm. 

“Hey, Zeph,” Alfyn calls to the other man in the room— another boy his age, it looks like, clean-shaven, with messy brown hair and scattered freckles. They’re both wearing simple clothing with green sleeveless mantles on top. Zeph looks up from his worktable and sighs. 

“Only you could go out looking for nightblooms and come back with patients, Alf,” he says, washing his hands in a basin and drying them on a towel. “Who is it now?” His tone is teasing at first, but the humor vanishes from his face as he takes in Primrose’s and Yusufa’s conditions. “Alf, get some extra blankets from the back and tell Nina to start a pot of bone broth. We’ll also need some splint straps and the jar of grapewood poultice.” 

“You got it, boss,” Alfyn says, darting off through a door in the back. Zeph tries to take Yusufa from Prim, but Prim recoils. 

“Don’t,” she grinds out. 

“I’ll need to if I’m going to treat either of you,” Zeph says patiently. “Could you set her down on the table here, please?”

Primrose does that, at least. She’s reluctant to let Yusufa go. At least the table is clean— it definitely beats lying on the ground. The old banner she’d been using as a poor substitute for a blanket falls away, and Prim picks it up and holds it in her arms. 

Zeph stands beside the table and takes out a funnel from his satchel. He presses the wide end against Yusufa’s chest and puts his ear to the other. “Fast heartbeat,” he mumbles. He takes out a pair of forceps and a small knife and cuts through Prim’s shoddy bandaging job. A foul smell wafts into the air. “Definite infection. How long’s she been running a fever?” 

“About two days,” Prim says. “She’s been shivering, too. And coughing.” 

“Broken ribs,” Zeph notes, touching her ribcage and making her wince. Prim stiffens like she’s about to attack, but doesn’t. “Could be pneumonia on top of the infection. Vomiting?”

“At first, but not anymore. She hit her head,” Prim says. 

Zeph hums. “Let’s add possible concussion to the list. Was it bloody?”

“No, I would’ve noticed.”

“Well, that’s something.” Zeph takes a wet cloth and starts swabbing at the stab wound, cleaning away pus and dried blood. “I’m seeing lots of bruises, but it doesn’t look like any organs have ruptured, and if there was no blood in the vomit, then everything’s probably intact.” 

Prim holds her arms close to her body. She’s standing nearby, out of Zeph’s way but close enough to see what’s happening. Alfyn comes back with a stack of blankets and a jar of something dark. “Got the poultice,” he says. “Nina’s starting the broth.” 

“Look at this, Alf,” Zeph says. 

Alfyn sucks a breath through his teeth. “Ouch,” he says. “Hemorrhaging?”

“No, the bandages stopped that from getting too bad, and there’s no ruptured organs that I can feel.”

“Deep, though. Definitely needed stitches.” 

“You keep cleaning this out,” Zeph says. “I’ll get the wound wash. ‘Fraid we’ll have to cut the clothing off, it’s sticking to everything. Real shame, bet this was nice once.” 

“Sorry ‘bout this, miss,” Alfyn says to Yusufa, taking out a knife and peeling away the chunks of dried blood, turned gooey and, somehow, even grosser with the gentle wash. He drops the discarded chunks into an old bucket lined lined with oilcloth. He carefully slices away the remnants of her costume, ruined beyond saving now, between the blood, dirt, and sand. 

“It’s okay,” Yusufa manages. 

“Fact that you’re still conscious is a good sign,” he says. “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, yeah? I’ll stitch you up here, Zeph will set your leg, and then all you’ll need to do is rest up and heal.” 

“How’d this happen?” Zeph asks Prim, propping up Yusufa’s injured ankle on a sack. “Fever, concussion, infection, pneumonia, not to mention all the bruises.”

“Not your concern.”

“‘Fraid it is, miss,” Zeph replies. “Maybe another apothecary would take you at your word, but we’ve got folk here who can’t defend themselves if whoever messed y’all up tries to finish the job. Moreover, if we don’t know the details, we can only do so much.” 

Prim sets her jaw firmly. “We’re from Sunshade,” she says. “We left a few days ago. I’m fine, but they got to her. They beat her. Stabbed her. Tossed her from a cliff, must’ve been about ten feet. She hit her head pretty hard. I couldn’t stitch her up, so I put some bandages on, but it wouldn’t heal, and she started running a fever a few days ago, and I tried to splint her ankle…” she swallows. “She can’t walk, we tried and she kept falling. She says her head hurts and she keeps coughing, but it hurts her, I know it does.” 

The air feels thick. Yusufa doesn’t know why Zeph and Alfyn are looking at them like that, but Prim does— it’s pity. 

She clears her throat. “But we weren’t followed. The Master is dead, and his henchmen, too. I doubt anyone else even knows we’re gone. No one will think to look in a backwater town like this, anyway— no offense.” 

Alfyn shrugs. “None taken.” 

“You did the right thing with what you had,” Zeph tells her. “That’s important. If you hadn’t done anything, she’d definitely be dead.” 

“I almost was,” Yusufa mumbles. “I saw Sealctige, the Lady of Grace, I think.” She frowns, trying to recall. It hurts her head to try.

“Folks see all kinds of things when they’re close to death like that,” Alfyn says, carefully cutting through the clotted blood and revealing fresh blood and pus to the air. He carefully soaks a cloth and starts clearing it all away. It stings a little, enough to make her grimace, but it’s not that bad. 

“When’d y’all eat last?” Zeph asks. “And what about water?” 

“We had a canteen in the desert, we shared,” Prim says. “As for food…” she furrows her brow, trying to think. “A week, I think.” 

“Longer,” Yusufa says. “For me, at least.” 

Alfyn whistles. “Maybe we should start with teas instead of jumping right to bone broth.” 

“Nah, Dad’s notes say bone broth works for a first meal after starvation,” Zeph replies. 

“What’s that?” Yusufa asks. 

“The best thing you could possibly have after goin’ hungry for a week or more,” Alfyn says with a grin. He starts applying salve from a jar around her the edges of her wound, spreading it out thin. It smells like lemons and something unfamiliar, strongly enough it covers up the smell of infection. The feeling is cold and oddly tingly as it goes on. Zeph picks up a second jar with a different salve and spreads it on the inside of her forearm.

“That’ll help with the pain,” he says. “We normally brew it into a potion, but you’ll need it strong, and it’s at its strongest when we brew it with milk, which your stomach can’t handle. You’ll throw it right back up.”

“It’s not that bad,” Yusufa says.

Zeph grimaces. “We haven’t gotten to the bad part yet. You should sit down,” he adds, looking to Primrose. “If you’ve been carryin’ her for five days straight, there’s no telling what damage got done to your feet and knees.”

“I’m fine,” Prim says firmly. “Focus on her.” 

Alfyn washes the salve from his hands and starts scraping at the edges of the wound with his blade. It’s razor-sharp, and the salve’s application means it doesn’t hurt as much as it could’ve. His hand is steady and his face is calm, like he’s done this hundreds of times. When he’s done he wipes off the scalpel on a spare cloth and sets it down. Then he takes out a needle and a spool of thin black thread. 

“Just stay still,” he advises. “This ain’t gonna be fun, but I’m gonna stitch up those lower layers so they’ll heal easier. You’re gonna have a scar, though.” 

A scar. That’s proof enough to Yusufa that Helgenish meant to kill her. If he’d wanted her alive, he wouldn’t have left a mark— his tavern sells the illusion of perfect beauty to men willing to part with their gold for a few hours of pleasure. Scars would ruin the illusion, so he never whipped or slashed or burned his dancers. If he’d wanted her alive, he would’ve stuck to the bruises. 

The needle pierces her skin. Just like Alfyn said, she stays as still as she can, her hands gripping the sides of the table. She tries to focus on anything else, like the rough grain beneath her hands, or Zeph assessing her broken leg. 

“You’ll feel some pressure,” he says. Before Yusufa can try to figure out what he means, she hears a scrape and a pop, and a searing wave of pain rushes through her. A noise of pain escapes between her grit teeth, and it takes all her strength not to wince and mess up Alfyn’s work. When she opens her eyes again, she can see Prim standing with her shoulder against the wall, clutching the banner with her hands trembling. She tries to smile reassuringly— _I’m fine, really_ — but doesn’t know if she succeeds. 

“I think we’ve got a splint that’ll fit your leg,” Zeph says. “Your ankle’s really taken the worst of it, especially down here.” He gestures to where her ankle meets her leg bone. “It’s pretty bad. Broken-in-a-dozen-pieces bad. Got the main parts aligned again, but there’s only so much I can do about the fragments. We’re gonna splint it up and see if the fragments find their way back to where they ought to be.”

“What if they don’t?” Yusufa asks. 

“Depends on if the rest of the bone heals,” Zeph says. “If it does, Alf and I will go in with the scalpels and take out the pieces. Best we can really do, since we can’t see through your skin to see how many bits there are. Could definitely be worse, though.”

Yusufa nods. She knows what “worse” looks like. 

“That’ll do ‘er,” Alfyn says, finishing off the final stitch. “Those ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“We’ll leave that overnight,” Zeph says. “I’ll finish the physical exam, Alf. We’re gonna wanna get the stuff for a sponge bath to get all the rest of this dirt and gunk off. Betcha you’ll feel a lot better after that,” he adds, nodding to Yusufa.

“Works for me,” Alfyn says. “How about you, miss?” 

“I’m fine,” Prim says. 

“Sure, sure,” Alfyn agrees. “Wanna sit down? There’s a chair right here, you can stay close to your friend.” 

Prim reluctantly sits down where he suggested. Alfyn pulls up a stool next to her. 

“Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing,” he says with a wide, beaming smile. “Zeph’s the best doctor in Clearbrook. Your friend’s in good hands.” 

“You both look awfully young to be doctors,” Prim says. 

“Well, Zeph’s dad was the town apothecary before he was,” Alfyn says. “And Zeph learned everything from him ever since he was a sprout. Then I learned from him and Zeph. Zeph’s old man did some studies in Atlasdam, y’know. Ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at for country bumpkins like us. Lemme see your foot?”

Prim extends her leg. Alfyn takes off her battered sandal. She’d had to loosen the straps so she could still move her toes, but even so, they leave prints in her foot. Alfyn hums and squeezes one of her middle toes. 

“Ow!” Prim recoils. “What was that for?”

“Stress fractures,” Alfyn says. “Just like I thought. But don’t worry, some painkillers and bed rest and you’ll be right as rain. How ‘bout a bath while the soup’s cooking? I’ll find y’all something to wear in the meantime.” 

Prim, miffed about letting herself be told what to do by a scruffy apothecary, unbuckles and discards her other sandal. “Fine,” she says. “But I don’t need either of you babysitting me while I do it.” 

Alfyn takes the win. “I’ll heat up the water, you just sit tight.” He leaves. Prim moves closer to Yusufa. Yusufa reaches out and takes her hand. 

“Those ribs are pretty nasty,” Zeph muses. While Alfyn was assessing Primrose, Zeph’s been touching and finagling every bone and joint Yusufa has. “I’ve also found a busted collarbone and some damage to your other leg. Just a sprain, though, I’ll splint that up right quick. No cracks in your skull, either, just a bruised brain, and after five days, that’s well on its way to fixin’ itself right up. What we really oughta worry about is the infection and the pneumonia. Fightin’ em both off at the same time’s gonna spread you thin. I’m gonna whip up some antiseptic salve and brew up a tonic for those lungs of yours.” 

Yusufa nods. “We… we can’t pay you,” she says. 

Zeph chuckles. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that, miss,” he says. “My old man never took payment, and neither do we. Folks need help, we help ‘em. Simple as that.” 

Zeph leaves the room. Prim squeezes her hand. 

Alfyn comes back with a large soup pot full of water, a folded piece of cloth, a towel, and a hairbrush. Yusufa watches as he sets the things he’s carrying down in front of the hearth, then rolls a big metal washtub out from a corner of the room. He places it in front of the hearth, then pours the water from the soup pot into the washtub. He picks up the pot again, then hesitates. 

“I’ll have Nina bring the rest in,” he says. “You prolly don’t want me bargin’ in on you, huh?” 

Prim shrugs, with her typical cool, aloof demeanor Yusufa’s more used to seeing. “Do what you will.” 

Alfyn doesn’t seem to really know what to do with that information, so he leaves with the soup pot. Prim puts the faded banner over Yusufa once more, and Yusufa holds it, not because she’s cold or wants something to cover herself, but because it feels familiar, even ragged and faded as it is. 

A young girl returns through the same door through which Alfyn left, carrying the soup pot and hanging it on the pole above the hearth to let it heat up. She looks about twelve, and a lot like Zeph— same light brown hair, same freckles. Hers is long and worn in two braids tied in twine bows. She has the sleeves of her dress rolled up and an apron tied over the front. 

“I’ll be helping run the bath, miss,” she says to Primrose. “My name’s Nina. What’s yours?”

Prim doesn’t have the heart to be as cold and standoffish to a little girl. “Primrose,” she says. “And my friend, Yusufa.” 

“What lovely names,” Nina says. “Shame about the silks, though. Yours I think can be saved, but Zeph told me Yusufa’s are too damaged. If you like I can take ‘em to someone I know in town. She can get anything out of anything and make it good as new. Dunno if she’s ever tried anything as fine as this, but, well, won’t hurt to ask, will it?”

“That’s very kind of you, Nina,” Prim says with a slight smile. “Thank you for the help.” 

Nina beams, turning to Yusufa. She gets a stool and stands on it, giving herself some extra height. She puts the back of her little hand on Yusufa’s forehead, then the side of her neck. “The antipyretic’s doing its job,” she notes. “That’ll keep your body from cookin’ itself from the inside out. I’ve got a tonic for the cough, too. Here.” She lifts Yusufa’s head and puts a roll of fabric under it, inclining it just enough she can drink without spilling it down her windpipe. She helps Yusufa drink something dark purple from a flask. Going down, it tastes very herbal and leafy, like the time Helgenish forgot to feed her for two weeks and Yusufa got so hungry she tried to eat sprigs from the bush outside the tavern. 

“Your chest should clear up some soon,” Nina says. “Are you two really dancing girls from Sunshade?” 

Yusufa nods. “We were, anyway,” she says. “I doubt they’ll want us back.”

“I wouldn’t go back even if they begged,” Prim scoffs. 

“Prim was the best dancer Sunshade had,” Yusufa says. “I’d heard people would come from all over Orsterra just to see her. The whole tavern would go silent when she went onstage.”

“Wow,” Nina breathes.

“I heard some call her the Ruby of Sunshade,” Yusufa remembers. “Not just anyone gets a nickname like that.” 

Prim sets her jaw. “Well, those days are behind me now,” she says. “It wasn’t anything to admire. Sunshade’s pretty on the outside, but it’s got a rotten core that poisons anyone who spends long enough there. That place and everyone in it can rot and burn for all I care.” 

She walks off to the washtub, dumping in the pot of hot water, shedding her clothes, and starting the process of getting off all the dirt and dried blood, glaring at the fire in the hearth. 

Nina frowns. “Did you like being a dancer, Yusufa?”

Yusufa considers this. “I like dancing,” she said. “But not the way they had me do it.” 

Nina nods. “I’ll get some stuff for the sponge bath,” she says. “That’ll feel real nice. Then Zeph can come and splint up your legs.”

She leaves the room. Yusufa shifts a little, looking up at the wood-beam ceiling. The rafters lean up towards the other side of the house. She can see the underside of the thatch roof. She wonders why it’s angled like that. You definitely couldn’t put a roof garden there. 

Prim doesn’t say anything, either. Yusufa can hear the lapping of the bath water in the washtub, the sound of the hairbrush going through her hair and pulling out the sand and tangles, one tug at a time. Yusufa’s kept her hair short as long as she can remember, cut it herself with whatever she could get her hands on. All the kids did— didn’t want it to get caught in any hinges or singed by fires. Even after she became a dancer, the habit stuck. And Helgenish didn’t really care, anyway, so long as she brought in money. 

The dancers always bathed in a communal bathhouse, heated from below with metal pipes attached to burning furnaces. Once it’d been Yusufa’s job to help stoke the fires to keep them at the right temperature. She’d always leave the furnace room covered in soot and ashes. Inside the bathhouse, though, it was lovely, all clear water and beautiful mosaics. The dancers had their choice of bath oils and soaps and fragrances, far nicer than anything Yusufa had ever gotten before. They sat on the edges of the bathing pool and scraped away the sand and sweat, chatter echoing off the tile. It was another part of the dancers’ gilded cage. 

The water in the washtub sloshes as Prim stands back up. Yusufa hears her dry herself and then dress, and then the quiet padding of her bare feet on the wooden-plank floor. She comes to stand near Yusufa again, and takes her hand. She’s braided her hair loosely behind her head, and dressed in a borrowed yellow nightgown a little bit too big. She’s scrubbed off her makeup. Yusufa can see the dark circles under her eyes, the raggedness in her lip where she’s chewed at it. Somehow she looks both older and younger.

“They’re so kind,” Yusufa murmurs. “Just like you.” 

Prim shakes her head. “Kinder,” she says. “Much kinder.” 

The door opens. Nina walks in, carrying a basket. “Soup should be ready soon,” she said. “Come on, let’s get all that gunk off you. Or—“ she pauses. “Would you like it better if Miss Primrose did it?” 

Yusufa’s glad she suggested it. She nods.

  
“I’ll get some fresh water for you, then,” Nina decides, setting the basket down by the washtub and picking up the soup pot. She pushes open the door with her foot like she’s done it a million times, and pulls it shut with her ankle. 

Prim gathers her into her arms. Yusufa can feel her heartbeat, hear her breathing. She feels warm and alive. Prim settles her in the washtub. Yusufa leans against the rim. Prim picks up her dagger and starts cutting loose the matted chunks. Yusufa doesn’t mind. It’s just hair. 

“I think you’re as kind as them,” she says. “You were always kind to me. You never shouted or hit me.”

“That’s not what kind is, Yusufa,” Prim replies. “You act like it’s a big charity, not hitting you. That’s the bare minimum of what kindness is. I may not have hit you, but I didn’t do anything else, either.”

Yusufa shakes her head. “That was enough for me.” 

“But it shouldn’t have been,” Prim insists. She swallows. “When I saw how Helgenish had hurt you, when… when you hit the ground, when you asked me if we were friends, I realized that I hadn’t been good enough to you. You thought I was a saint just because I hadn’t hurt you or been cruel to you like everyone else. And I thought, how awful that must’ve been. How awful to think that the absence of cruelty was the best you’d ever get.” She shakes her head. “I’d never forgive myself if I saw you die and knew you never learned you deserved to be truly loved.” 

Love. Yusufa’s heard the word before, but never really figured out what it means. 

Prim kisses her head. “We’re never going back,” she murmurs. “Never. No one’s ever going to hurt you like that again.”

“Never again,” Yusufa murmurs. “I never thought it was possible.” 

“So many things are possible, Yusufa,” she says. “You know why? Because we’re safe.” 


End file.
